The pale afternoon sun was weak to dissipate the fog prevailing the valleys. Crouching, Vardille squinted, trying to make out the jagged crown of the Elms in the distance. With the sky grey and the air heavy with dampness, it proved a real struggle. He knew the mountains were there. But for how long, he could not tell—and that drove him insane.

Counting the days was a waste of time. Bryne and he spent the night on the beach after that abhorrent day in the Ghatra, then another three with the band. They stayed in Greenfall for a night and were on the run for the fourth day now, leaving Lake Ghynal the day before. One and a half week, and still, they were nowhere near Grospan. They were nowhere near Ithlien either.

He turned and looked to the East. The demon horde was hard on their heels. The fog favoured them, concealing the red-clad soldiers for the time being, but Vardille had spotted them many a time before; an evermoving mass of crimson in the valleys, accompanied by a pack of their winged beasts, growing day by day, as if the ones they killed in Greenfall were only a vanguard. Vardille believed they had but a few days of advantage—for how long, again, he could not tell.

‘You know,’ came a wondering voice above his head, ‘had you told me that this Grospan city is at the other Ice-damned side of your island, we could have just put our drakkar to the water and sail around.’

‘That seems hardly doable now, doesn’t it?’

Mjelgralah snorted and crouched next to the Crownguard.

‘How long do we have until we’re fucked?’

Vardille glanced at the chief before turning, watching King Bryne sitting a few dozen feet away, eyes closed, back straight. Sharp cold spread in Vardille’s chest before shaking his head.

‘That depends on what you mean. Until the demons reach us? With this speed we might have a little more than three days.’ Resigned, he nodded towards Bryne, continuing in a low voice, ‘Until we are all driven insane? Might be already too late for that.’

‘I’m not one for the Gods,’ Mjelgralah admitted, voice slightly trembling. ‘But I promise I’ll pray to them if we make it out alive.’

‘Don’t be hasty. You may need to keep that promise in the end.’

‘So be it,’ Mjelgralah stood. ‘I’ll be glad to keep it. I don’t break my promises. You see, for one, I promised my clan I’d speak with the king of Amrith.’

Bryne lifted a brow, opening one eye.

‘A promise better be kept. Must be very important to you, judging by how many times we’ve heard it in recent days. I would gladly hear what a Velardhari envoy has to say to the king of Amrith.’

‘I knew you would.’

‘I think—’

‘I am truly sorry, my friend, but we did not speak to you. Let us converse with Chief Mjelgralah. I believe she has something important to talk about.’

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Vardille remained silent.

‘Do I?’ The redhead girl tilted her head.

‘Speculation only, my fierce chief, but what would that conversation be about with the king?’

‘Speculation only, my meek marquis, but I’d tell him the words my chief spoke. My chief with whom the king already battled once, in a prolonged warfare between the Velardhari and the Roses, the king wearing the colours of Andoriel back then. Battled, and not just figuratively, through their armies, no. My chief said this king of yours was a man of virtue. Two years they spent fighting when the man, to prevent further bloodshed, challenged my chief, the Warchief of Velardhar himself at that time, to a duel. Being a northerner, the Warchief had to obey lest his honour be lost.’

Vardille slowly rose, took a steady step back, his gaze fixed on Mjelgralah. Her tone was playful, edged with sarcasm; the Crownguard had learnt by now that it always meant trouble.

Bryne seemed genuinely regretful. Both eyes open, he listened to Mjelgralah carefully.

‘The duel was a tragedy. My Warchief lost his right arm. He was beaten. His warriors, furious, wanted to crush the Andorieli contingent, but honour, the same that drove your king to propose the duel, stopped them. Funny little fact is that the king was but a marquis at that time. Isn’t that curious? But the ugliest part is yet to come. They said the young man was Reborn. With storms raging in his eyes.’

Vardille turned sideways, slowly slipping his hand to the hilt of his sword. Instincts drove him, nothing else: the chief’s voice softened, and he sensed danger.

‘Curious, indeed.’ Bryne remained seated, composure regained. ‘So? What are the words your chief spoke?’

Mjelgralah grew serious, smirking, enjoying the last bit of stretching silence before speaking:

‘When the Bride awakes, the Path is revealed. To walk it, the Queen shall kill. Once the shards appear, the Gates open, and Twelve shall be Twelve again.’

Vardille held his breath, staring at Bryne, awaiting his response—but the King sat motionless, face unchanged.

‘Interesting,’ was all he said.

‘Indeed,’ Mjelgralah nodded. ‘The words are coded, of course. But to the king it should make sense.’

‘Then I’m sure he will understand your message, Chief.’

‘Good.’ The warrioress glanced at Vardille, flashing her eyes at the Crownguard’s hand on the hilt of his sword, smirked, and cracked her neck. ‘We need to keep going.’

‘What,’ Bryne turned his head after Mjelgralah, stopping the girl for a moment, ‘do you think your Warchief would do if he found out his past enemy is dead?’

‘Is he?’ the redhead girl stared down Bryne.

‘Rumours say the king hasn’t been seen for a long time. I’m afraid we must brace ourselves to the worst scenario.’

Mjelgralah slowly nodded. ‘I believe he would mourn, even if not for long.’ She sighed. ‘What should I do if… the kind is dead?’

Bryne shrugged. ‘Not much. If the message is coded, no one else would understand it, would they?’

‘No. They wouldn’t.’

Vardille waited until Mjelgralah left the two of them, then walked to Bryne, crouching.

‘Will you let me understand what I’ve just heard?’

‘I will, my friend,’ Bryne looked up at the silver grey skies, eyes now glowing with the wrath of worlds beyond. ‘We have just got what we needed.’